Eyeshot by Lynn Hightower Page B

swelled and bloated in the heat. More flies arrived, circling the top of the bucket. Sonora felt the sun on her head, the sweat running down her back. Her shoes were caked with mud.
    They could take that gar back, and analyze the stomach contents.
    Sam clicked his recorder on. “Mr. Cheatham was just getting started on his story.”
    Sonora settled next to Sam on the overturned boat. Cheatham turned another five gallon bucket—this one said PAPA JOHN ’ S MILD GOLDEN PEPPERONCINI on the side—and sat on the edge. He scratched his chin.
    â€œI run the trotline out last night around dusk.”
    Sonora looked at Sam and he whispered in her ear. “Fishing line. Baited all the way across, goes across the river, sits on the bottom, maybe, and snags fish.” He looked up at Cheatham. “What’d you bait it with, Mr. Cheatham?”
    â€œCookie dough and night crawlers.”
    Sam looked interested. Nodded his head.
    â€œWent down real early this morning, ’bout six-thirty when the sun come up, and brought up the line. Found this bag hanging off the middle. So I pull it up and dump it on the bottom of the boat there.” He rubbed rough palms together, making raspy noises, like cricket legs at dusk. His left shoulder twitched at regular intervals.
    â€œNever seen nuthin’ like it before and never hope to again. That water dog up and crawls across my foot and I bash it good with my bat there.” He nodded toward the stained aluminum bat. “And I head on home, shaking like nobody’s business, I don’t mind telling you.”
    â€œDid you check the rest of the line?” Sonora asked.
    Cheatham nodded. The shoulder twitched.
    â€œAnything on any of the other hooks?”
    Cheatham shook his head. “Nuthin’ of a unusual nature. Turtles. Got a good-sized wide mouth bass. Good eating for tonight, anyhow.”
    Sonora watched for the shoulder twitch. “Then what happened?”
    â€œI come close to heaving the whole mess on back in the water, then I start to wondering where’s the rest of her? So I poke around a little where the line was, but didn’t find much. I didn’t look too hard, it was giving me a funny feeling, sitting out on that boat with … you know, in the bottom.”
    Sonora glanced out across the river. “Right about where were you, Mr. Cheatham?”
    He rubbed the back of his neck. Pointed to the right, away from the ballpark. “Right down there just a piece—see where that tree’s laying sideways like? Had one end of the trot line tied around it, but I hid it on the other side. Didn’t want nobody messing with it.”
    Sam nodded.
    Sonora looked out over the water, picturing the old yellow boat bobbing in the ripples, the park quiet, sun just up, accordions of reflected light skimming the water’s surface. Fish jumping, making ripples. Cheatham emptied his last cigarette out of a crumpled pack of Camel Lights, struck a wooden match on his black-rimmed thumbnail. The acrid smell of burning tobacco drifted around their heads. Cheatham inhaled deeply, dragging a good way into his last cigarette like a man starved.
    Sam took pictures. Jack Cheatham sat on the upturned bucket, cigarette loose on the left side of his mouth, a hesitant smile on his face, like a man who’s been trained to smile for the camera, no matter what.

18
    Sonora watched them from a distance—Heather going up and down in the big swing, Smallwood pushing her higher and higher.
    There was no parking this far back in the park, so Sam edged the Blazer off the road into the grass. He put the car in park, tapped the steering wheel. Looked at Sonora and grinned.
    â€œSo that’s the famous Smallwood. He still calling you every couple of weeks?”
    Sonora nodded. Watched Clampett, on his feet, circling the swing set, growling at any child or adult who came within fifteen feet of Heather.
    He seemed to tolerate a smaller